Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (27 page)

“I got her message on my answering tape.” He concentrated, trying to recall. “She said, ‘Desmond, I’m having dinner at my house Saturday night at seven for the Walden School trustees. It is essential that you attend.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t identify herself, didn’t call back, tell you what it was all about?”

“No.”

I sipped my tea. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“When Patty Kay made up her mind, she moved fast. She assumed I knew her voice. She assumed everybody’d come. And I’m sure—”

“No. I’m not talking about the dinner party. Why didn’t she contact you
before
the dinner to pitch her plan or campaign or whatever it was she wanted? Why was it
essential?
To her? Or to the school?”

He finished his second drink, gestured again to the waiter. “I don’t have any idea.”

“But she arranged a dinner. There had to be a reason. She was upset, so she must have had something serious to discuss with the trustees. Here’s a woman who’s used to running all kinds of groups. What’s the first precept of success in an organization?”

“You rally your troops long before there’s open discussion.
You never make a motion unless you’re sure it will carry.”

“Right. Why didn’t she?”

“I don’t know.” He picked up his new drink, took a greedy gulp. “Maybe she called later but didn’t get me. She wouldn’t leave another message. Besides, she knew she could count on my vote—if it really mattered to her.”

I looked in his eyes.

He met my gaze.

And it was there, love and grief and deepest hopelessness.

Abruptly, I understood. Desmond had never married. Now I knew why. Desmond, too, had loved Patty Kay. Had he ever told her? Did it make any difference? Would he have been upset by her secret rendezvous with Stuart? What did he really feel about Craig?

He downed the rest of his drink and grimaced. “So if I knew what she wanted, I’d tell you. You’re right, Patty Kay’d definitely line up her ducks. You can find out tonight from the others.”

It was just past three when I got back to the house. My conference with Desmond frustrated me—we’d rehashed everything we knew or imagined but got nowhere even though my instinct said we were close—and I was desperately impatient for that evening’s meeting of the Walden trustees. Some of them surely would know what Patty Kay wanted, enough at least to carry a vote.

I slammed out of my car, then stopped to take a refreshing breath. A frisky breeze stirred the blooming jonquils, dazzling gold in the spring sunlight.

I decided to jog. Not only did I need the exercise, I could take another survey of the neighborhood, perhaps
spot where the murderer might have awaited Craig’s arrival. If that was what had happened …

The note on the front door stopped me cold:

Amy. The little clerk was so certain when Craig had left the bookstore on Saturday. Had she changed her mind?

I used the hall phone.

“Books, Books, Books.” The voice was pleasant and masculine.

“May I speak to Amy, please?”

“… She isn’t here.”

“With whom am I speaking?”

“Todd Simpson.”

“I had a message asking me to call her. Is she supposed to be there?”

“She certainly is.” He sounded puzzled. “From noon to six today.”

“She didn’t leave word where she was going?”

He was silent for a moment. “Who is speaking, please?”

“Henrie O Collins. Craig Matthews’s aunt.”

“Oh, Mrs. Collins.” Todd rushed now to confide. “Listen, we don’t know what to think. Amy’s been absolutely dependable. She even came in a few minutes early today. She was here, unpacking boxes, doing some phoning, other stuff. Then we had a real rush around two. When I looked for her later, I couldn’t find her. I’ve even called her apartment and there’s no answer. You’d think she would’ve told me if she was sick or had to leave.”

A dreadful wave of coldness swept through me. I thanked Todd and hung up hastily, battling nausea.

I drove too fast, all thoughts of spring beauty and a jog gone. I didn’t like the thoughts I was having.

Amy’s message asked me to call; she’d said it was important.

I parked at the curb directly in front of the store and hurried inside.

I spotted a stocky blond young man, still in the navy blue suit he’d worn to the funeral.

He walked swiftly to me. “Mrs. Collins?”

“Yes. Are you Todd?”

“Yes, ma’am. Listen, it’s awfully nice of you to come, but I’ve looked again. Everywhere. Amy’s definitely not here.”

“I hope not.”

“What do you mean?”

I didn’t take time to answer. I plunged past him, gave only a cursory glance at the open floor of the store and the easily seen mezzanine, then hurried to the stockroom.

Todd followed. He quickly got the drift of my search. His eyes widened.

It didn’t take long. There weren’t that many places to check.

Some large cupboards in the storeroom.

The shipping crate that had held a new refrigerator for the coffee bar.

The dark shadows by the closed loading dock.

The dank old cellar no longer in use.

And, in the bricked alleyway, the dumpster.

The heavy rusted top shrieked when I propped it open.

I looked at the worn soles of low-heeled pink flats. And at thin grayish ankles. The blood had drained to her upper
torso. I was glad I couldn’t see the congested, dark, purple skin.

Quick anger shook me. Damn, oh, damn, damn, damn. “Call the police,” I told Todd, and didn’t recognize the harsh voice as my own.

The lights overhead spilled down on the coffee area where we waited, capturing us in a sickly yellow pool of fluorescence. The only sound was the quiet murmur as the policewoman, Sergeant Roman, took down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the employees and customers who were in the bookstore when we found Amy.

I, too, scribbled the names down. Not quite surreptitiously, but without advertisement.

I could hear the slight scratch of my pencil against the pad, feel the pressure of my fingers against the pencil.

I was alive, able to feel—and raging at myself.

Because poor little Amy with her oversize glasses and anxious eyes was dead in an alley dumpster.

And it could be my fault.

Mine.

I’d told Craig Amy was absolutely positive of the time he left the bookstore on the day Patty Kay died.

Goddammit,
I
told him.

The tip of the pencil snapped beneath the pressure of my fingers. I found another pencil, completed the list, and dropped pad and pencil into my purse.

The store around us, lights glaring down on untenanted aisles, was somber, and vaguely threatening.

Occasionally someone rattled the locked front door, puzzled at the prematurely posted CLOSED sign.

Police came and went through the entrance to the stockroom. Those of us sequestered in the coffee area miserably watched them in silence.

One of the clerks, a plump girl with a wide mouth meant for smiling, snuffled noisily into a damp wad of tissue. Todd Simpson, his face sympathetic and bewildered, patted her shoulder.

Restless, I walked over to the coffee bar, poured chocolate mocha coffee into a mug, and splashed in a generous amount of cream. The coffee did nothing to warm the hollow coldness in my stomach, but I sipped it as I glanced around the coffee area.

I didn’t know any of the other clerks. Except, of course, Cheryl Kraft, the afternoon’s designated socialite. She kept brushing back silver-blond hair from a suddenly gaunt face, and her huge pagoda-shaped silver earrings gave an eerie tinkle. The harsh light betrayed the telltale traces of plastic surgery.

A siren sounded from the alleyway.

Every head turned.

Captain Walsh came through the storeroom door. He glanced at a card in his hand. “Todd Simpson?”

Todd gave the plump girl another pat, then stood. “Sir?”

“Come this way, please.”

About five minutes later Todd returned. He was sweating heavily.

I knew why. To identify the body of someone you know is a sickening experience.

Now the police could close the body bag on poor Amy.

I figured it would be at least an hour before Walsh interviewed those of us detained. The captain and his small investigating team had plenty to do: a painstaking examination of the actual scene, note-taking, sketching, photography (more than likely videocam taping too), the careful, tedious collection of physical evidence.

A mumble of voices drifted through the open stockroom door. Try as I might, I couldn’t understand what was being said.

Suddenly the door swung shut. Now we couldn’t hear anything.

I probably had an hour at most before I’d see the police chief.

I had a decision to make.

If I told Captain Walsh about my talk with Amy and my report of it to Craig, I’d be hand-delivering a class-A motive for Craig to commit murder.

The probable result: Craig’s instant arrest.

But maybe that’s exactly what I should do.

Only two facts held me back.

The search of Patty Kay’s office.

Craig ran away when I confronted him.

But, nonetheless, the fifteen minutes that Amy would have sworn to was enough to put Craig back in jail.

The decision was mine to make.

The businessman who’d been pacing up and down by the psychology shelves swung toward the policewoman. “Look, I’m missing clients. I just dropped in here to buy
Fortune
. I’ve given you my name and address. My office is just across the street.”

“I’m sorry, sir. No one can leave until Captain Walsh says so.”

“Well, ask him, will you?”

“The captain requested that everyone remain here until further notice. He will speak with each of you as soon as possible.”

“Dammit to hell, I’ve got a new client coming in at four-thirty. He’s—”

Todd pushed up from the straight chair he’d straddled. He was a big young man, the kind who plays lineman for his high school team—trunk legs, a barrel chest, a big head. He wasn’t large enough for college ball, but he made the businessman look small. His face still glistened with sweat. “Look, mister, Amy’s dead. You may not care, but we do. And maybe you can help. Don’t you want to help?”

Every face turned toward the complainer. He had the grace to turn fiery red. Then he slumped silently into a chair.

I had the clerks sorted out by now: Jackie, the plump, snuffling girl; Paul, cadaverously skinny, his long black hair in a ponytail, a golden ring in his left earlobe; Candy, serious gray eyes, a cheerful pug nose, a sprinkle of freckles that stood out now against shock-paled skin.

Cheryl Kraft, of course, didn’t look like a clerk. Not in that turquoise floral silk jacquard dress. She was uncharacteristically subdued. The jeweled hands in her lap trembled.

The other customers made no complaint. A nursing mother turned her back to the group and cuddled a baby to her breast while she played a rhyming game with her restless toddler. Two well-dressed middle-aged women exchanged anxious whispers. A distinguished-looking man about my age calmly read a paperback of Suetonius.

Todd once again straddled the straight chair. He rested his sweaty face on his crossed arms.

I walked over to him.

“Todd, where’s Stevie?”

“Ma’am, the captain said no talking.” The policewoman was pleasant but firm.

I nodded, returned to the coffee bar, and sat on a stool. I got out my notebook again. Okay. No questions now.

But I’d damn sure ask questions later.

I’d just started sketching down my thoughts, when the front door opened.

We all turned to look.

A patrolman ushered in Craig Matthews and Stevie Costello.

Craig looked at me, looked quickly away. He took a seat at the periphery of the café area.

Stevie slid onto the stool next to mine. “Tell me—”

“No talking, please.” The policewoman stepped toward us. Stevie nodded jerkily. She didn’t look toward Craig.